


No Coffee

by obviousPlant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coffee, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Memory Alteration, Muggle London
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obviousPlant/pseuds/obviousPlant
Summary: He's a grumpy barista. She's a rather annoying customer. As far as he knows, anyway.Hermione Granger knows better — Draco Malfoy is serving her coffee in the middle of Muggle London. What she can't understand is why. And she's determined to find out.“If you were happy, really happy, would you even want to know that it was all a lie?”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 30
Kudos: 120





	1. Nutcracker

Hermione Jean Granger was late for work on a cold, windy London morning. She whipped her scarf behind her shoulder and marched past shop and cafe windows, glancing at her harried reflection in the glass. 

Dark circles, fine lines. She could see herself getting older every day. Some days this pleased her, others it didn’t. It was an achievement, after all, to have lived this long at all. Her seventeen-year-old self, grimy and exhausted in her forest hideout, would certainly be happy to hear she’d made it far enough to worry about _wrinkles_. But damn, she missed her youth. It was hard these days to look at her own face in the mirror: its unmistakeable wornness, the beauty she’d never —

A shock of white blond hair crossed her vision and she stopped in her tracks. Blinking, she stepped backwards and stared hard into a large glass window. A man, wiry, wearing a proud expression and short, rolled-up grey sleeves. Her mouth hung open. If she looked close enough she could see the Dark Mark. She sucked in a breath. 

Hermione Granger hadn’t spared much of a thought for Draco Malfoy in the years after the war. She had been focused on coming up from underwater, not those lingering behind her in its depths. Did he return for eighth year? No, she recalled, something about his legal situation, or — well, she just didn’t know. If she had pictured him at all, it was in Malfoy Manor; the disgraced heir wandering through its winding passageways. Lying in wait, licking his wounds, maybe. She never would have imagined he was living and working in Muggle London. And as a bloody barista no less.

She caught a flash of grey eyes and quickly turned her head to face in front of her. Well. Well. What is one to do when one encounters an old enemy under utterly baffling circumstances, Separated only by a plate glass window? Hermione grit her teeth, grabbed the door handle, and walked in. 

The cafe was warm, bathed in yellow light. An old Chesterfield sat in one corner, an antique bathtub in another. Art lined the walls — a line drawing of a rabbit, dozens of pinned butterflies. It wasn’t too crowded for 8 am on a Monday, but a group of girls reading aloud looked cool enough to make Hermione frown a little and tuck her hair behind her ears.

“Welcome to the Blacklight Cafe, what can I get you?” He said, utterly perfunctory. Barely glancing at her, but certainly not ignoring her either.

Hermione could only stare at him for an uncomfortably long moment before managing to reply. “Uh. Hello.”

A beat passed with no response before he raised his eyebrows, expression still mild. “What will you have?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “What will I have?”

He looked at her with cool eyes, seeming to actually notice her standing there for the first time. Now, at least, he began to look annoyed. “Yes. This is a place of business. We sell things. Like coffee. Tea. Pastries. What will you have?”

“Oh. yes. Of course. Um…” She looked around frantically before landing on the daily specials. 

“A Nutcracker please.” 

He leveled that same expectant, mild look at her, blond eyebrows again raised. This time she’d caught on, collecting herself enough to act something like a normal customer. “Medium. To go.”

He punched in some numbers at the cash register. “Alright. That’ll be 4 pounds even.”

“Right. Yes.” She fished through her bag for her wallet and began to grab her card before stopping short. Visa Platinum, expiry date December, _Hermione Jean Granger_. She replaced the card and continued to fish, fingers brushing against 2 pound, 3, 3.50… and nothing more.

“I uh — I’m a bit short,” she said, handing him the money she had.

Eyebrow arched, this time. “The card?”

“There’s no money on it.”

“There’s no money on it,” he said flatly.

“That’s what I said,” she, indeed, said, with a determination and irritation that belied her apparent position as one who had a card without money on it. _God_ but he was such a git.

He rolled his eyes, took the money, and began working on the drink.

She gazed at his back in wonderment. Draco Malfoy. Making her a coffee. Looking like… a thousand other crabby baristas in a thousand other hip cafes. She stood there another moment before walking unsteadily to the pick-up counter. A woman with bright red hair handed her her order and that was that.

In a daze, she walked out of the Blacklight, back onto the street. Draco Malfoy was working in Muggle London. As a barista. And seemed to have no idea who she was. 

Her morning rush forgotten, Hermione sipped the drink. It was disgustingly sweet. She made a face.

The gears in her head were already turning. Could he possibly be faking it? Sure, Malfoy had been cunning, not afraid to lie to get what he wanted. But this was something else. He’d have to be the world’s greatest actor to feign ignorance to her face. Setting aside the fact that he was _brewing coffee in Muggle London,_ for heaven’s sake _._ Memory modification? It seemed the most obvious answer, barring an elaborate ruse on his part. But who would do it, and why? She quickened her pace, bound with renewed purpose for the Ministry.


	2. The Malfoy Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione begins her investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Thrilled you’re here for a second chapter. After reading an embarrassing amount of Dramione fanfiction over the years, I decided I should make a contribution of my own. Quite a bit of this story is already written, and I plan on making monthly-ish updates until it’s done. Enjoy!

**Kensington flat, 8:00 pm**

Hermione wrote the sum of what she had found in the thick, black notebook she carried with her wherever she went. It contained creamy lined paper, a packed calendar, and a table of contents with one new entry: The Malfoy Affair. 

_Draco Malfoy. Born 5 June, 1980 to Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, née Black. Educated at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry until return to Malfoy Manor as full-time Death Eater. Placed on house arrest as of 4 June, 1998. Awaiting trial and sentencing._

The matter-of-fact paragraph was the extent of the information contained within Malfoy’s Ministry record. Hermione tapped her pen against her temple before setting it back to paper. _Investigation,_ she wrote, and took another sip of tea. 

**Ministry of Magic, 8:15 am**

After clocking in at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hermione headed straight for the File Cabinet, a cavernous warehouse of Ministry documents where she spent much of her time. 

She nodded at Iolo Piper, an ancient Ministry official with a wispy white beard. His official role had something to do with Wizengamot Administration, if she recalled correctly, but all Hermione had ever seen him do was wander these halls, excruciatingly slowly. She cleared her throat. “Alright, Mr. Piper?” 

He nodded, his milky eyes half open. Hermione wondered if he could even see her, but, just in case, made a few wrong turns into “Recipes, Luncheon,” and “Timeturners, Incidents Involving” before ducking into the hall marked “Wizards of the Modern Era.”

She looked left and right, then, finding herself alone, exhaled. “Alright,” she whispered. She found herself feeling oddly guilty and very anxious, though she couldn’t say exactly why. Bad memories of winding halls and secret documents, perhaps. The prospect of discovering a Malfoy plot, maybe. Mistrust of the Ministry, even. But surely, all that was silly, and the answer would be right here, written in these files. Right?

She swallowed and tapped her wand on the cool metal, only to yelp and leap out of the way as the impossibly deep M drawer exploded out of the wall. Clearing her throat, she crouched down and got back to work. 

She began to flip through endless folders, from MacIntosh to Madden to Maelstrom before landing on — _Malfoy, Draco._ “Gotcha.” 

She picked up the manila folder and paused. It was awfully... light. She opened it slowly. “Hm.” A short biographical paragraph. A processing document for his house arrest. And that was it. Nothing followed. It was as if he was stuck in limbo, awaiting “trial and sentencing” indefinitely. 

Trying to ignore her accelerating heartrate, she pulled out the other Malfoys’ files. A filing error perhaps — Draco’s sordid history getting mixed up with the rest of his line’s. 

She grabbed the file labeled _Malfoy, Lucius [INCARCERATED]_ and plopped onto the floor, cross-legged. It was far, far, heavier, featuring biographical information (“At age 8, broke his leg in a flying accident”), investigation dossiers (“Seen entering Yaxley residence at 20:00, left at 20:10”), and trial transcripts (“Expert witness Magali: The Imperius curse can indeed go undetected, particularly when—”). But nothing that could be confused for Draco’s. Frowning, Hermione began to flip through _Malfoy, Abraxas [DECEASED]_. There was a distressing list of Dark objects in his possession, but no documents that did not belong. 

She glanced back at _Malfoy, Draco._ Other than the lightness of his file, there was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary. Nothing except — Hermione squinted, then held the file close to her face — a bright purple asterisk in the top-right corner. 

Hermione’s hands scrambled over the Lucius and Abraxas files. No asterisk. She stood quickly, blood rushing to her head, and began to grab folders at random. _Malcolm, Kimberly,_ no asterisk, _Malthus, Stephen,_ no asterisk, _Mammoth, Sunderly,_ no asterisk. 

Footsteps sounded in a nearby corridor. Hermione put away the files as quickly and calmly as she could, tapped the drawer shut, and walked away from the sound. 

**Kensington flat, 8:10 pm**

Hermione massaged her temples, eyes squeezed shut. Her inner voice barked its way through her brain — _none of your business_ — _miscarriage of justice_ — _Malfoy’s a bastard_ — _that bloody report on selkies_ — until she interrupted them with a clearing of her throat. She set pen back to paper. 

_Outstanding questions:_

— _What is the significance of the purple asterisk? Do other files have it?_

— _What was the chain of custody on the file?_

— _Is Malfoy faking it? Why would he be?_

— _If it is memory modification, who could be responsible? Why?_

— _Is there an alternative explanation?_

— _Is it any of my bloody business?_

She huffed and crossed the last bit out. She’d gotten enough grief over the years for her tendency to poke her nose in, she didn’t need to add to it herself. There was nothing wrong with seeing injustice in the world and working to correct it. That’s what she told herself, anyway, as she moved to the next line. 

_Next steps,_ she wrote, and paused, her fountain pen dripping a fat splotch of ink on the page.

**Later**

She didn’t sleep. Despite her best efforts to push the situation out of her mind, she kept circling back to it. As she curled up in bed, she thought _what a nice blanket this is, when did I get it again?_ then _oh yes, in Morocco, what a lovely trip that was, but I did spend a whole load of money,_ then _what is Malfoy doing for money? Surely he’s not making enough to keep him in the style he’s accustomed to. Then again, if his memory has been wiped, he may not be accustomed to anything._ And so on and so forth, until she was cataloguing exactly what he had been wearing and exactly how far it was from dragonskin boots and Madam Malkin’s robes. 

He had seemed so soft in school, milkfed or something. All those chocolate deliveries from mummy gobbled up in the dining hall. Crying over Buckbeak. No matter how prickly he’d been, he gave off the unmistakable stench of weakness, if you cared to sniff it out — Crouch had, and Voldemart, and even, she thought uncomfortably, Harry. She’d been surprised that her friend’s ramblings were true, that Malfoy really was a Death Eater. But even that seemed suspect, now. The title was a joke, an absurd carrot for a very sick horse, one easily manipulated but fundamentally incapable of significant action, for good or for ill. Setting aside the fact that he was perfectly willing to go along if it suited him. Perfectly willing to aid and abet the murder of Mudbloods. 

And say her reading of Malfoy was correct — he was a pathetic, spoiled, racist man. What led a man like that to renounce everything and live in the muggle world? Alternatively, what would lead someone else to erase his memories and send him there? 

She scrunched her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep. She dreamed of goosefeathers, city streets, and little lost Draco Malfoy.


	3. Employee of the Month

Hermione woke up early after going to bed late. Sunrise on the Thames never looked so bright as she brushed bleary-eyed past the throng of commuters. 

There was something feverish about the way her mind was turning. She kept catching herself with her hand on her forehead, checking for warmth. At night, she’d slipped into dreams of Malfoy. In the morning, she’d risen into thoughts of him and, as if animated by some distant power, dressed and walked straight out the door to seek him out. 

She didn’t even try to stop herself; there was no point. The questions played on an endless loop in her head. _What was he doing there, where does he live, what shifts does he work, strange how he looks so much older, what is it like to be him now._ She’d found often in her life that the only path to relief was knowledge. So she was on her way.

The route from her flat to the Blacklight was a pleasant one: just a step from her normal commute to work, which hugged the Thames until it didn’t, winding through the more interesting parts of central London. She didn’t have to go this way — in fact, it was ridiculously out of the way to the Ministry. But she liked the river: its gentle current, its shifting colors. She walked briskly along with the other commuters and accepted her extra half hour as an indispensable part of her daily routine. Today, there was little difference. Just a few extra beads of sweat on her brow. Just a bit more stumbling and bumping into the people around her, a few more muttered sorrys. 

She turned left onto Kings Road and faltered, taking a false step and nearly tripping out of her penny loafers. He could be off that day. He could have quit. He could have gone on the run as soon as he saw her, disappearing into the night with nothing but a suitcase, never to be seen again. 

She smoothed her hair back, set her jaw, and kept walking. If he wasn’t there, it was just another data point. Valuable evidence in a rigorous inquiry. Buoyed, she opened the door and strode in the Blacklight so quickly she hardly noticed at first that he was, indeed, there. 

She felt her mouth fall open slightly and turned her back to close it, pulling the door in gently behind her. Draco Malfoy, perched on a stool, wearing a bright red jumper. It looked, she thought, almost obscene against his pale skin. At Hogwarts, he’d always been dressed in black robes. Without them, in red, he looked so naked. So Muggle. 

She approached the register, trying to keep her eyes away from the contrast of his wrist and his sleeve; his neck and his collar. 

From behind the counter, he flicked his eyes up from a book, then back down again. _Excellent Women,_ she noted, feeling so utterly bewildered that the fact that Malfoy was, on top of everything else, reading a Barbara Pym novel, seemed just as well.

She set her hands onto the counter decidedly with a thwack. He looked up at her, eyebrows raised. She withdrew her hands. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Hello.”

His mouth was set in a grim, straight line. “Hello,” he said — resentfully, she thought. She also thought she saw his eyes roll the slightest bit as he asked, “Can I take your order?”

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll take Earl Grey tea with lemon. Here, please.”

“That’ll be one pound 50.” He licked his lips, smirked. “Do you have enough this time?” Git. 

She scowled. “Here.” She paused, grit her teeth. “And some extra for you. For last time.”

He sniffed and pocketed the extra pound. Git!

She sat down at a table by the window and took out her own book. She was frowning through the first twenty pages of _The Crying of Lot 49_ when a woman with full sleeves and a sour expression brought her the tea. 

“Thank you,” she said. _Carissa,_ she added mentally, seeing the name tag on her t-shirt. She sat up straighter. The name tag. 

She set her book down, stood up, and walked to the counter, where Draco was studiously ignoring her, flipping to the next page. She scanned his front. Nothing on his chest but — ah. Too cool to put in on normally, he’d pinned the label to the bottom right of his jumper. 

“Damien.”

He made a show of closing his book onto a finger. “Yes.” 

“Erm. Can you point me toward the loo?”

He opened his book again. “Straight ahead, to the right.” 

“Right.” She went straight ahead and to the right, lingering in the hallway. Like the rest of The Blacklight, it was a bit dirty, rather dim, but strangely attractive. The wall was covered in old photographs and posters: a Victorian wedding photograph here, a concert flyer in Thai there. She was so wrapped up in an enormous Where’s Wally? printout that she nearly missed the photo of Draco in a frame that read: Damien Hurley, Employee of the Month. 

It was a striking photo. The camera flash illuminated his skin and hair, making him look like a high-fashion model or a ghost. He was sat, like he was this morning, on a stool with a book. No — she looked closer — a notebook. There was a pen behind his ear. His face was open; he was smiling, with teeth. In the background, a woman — Carissa, she recognized — was doubled over, pointing at him and laughing. 

She swallowed. Certainty pooled in her gut. Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, truly believed he was Damien Hurley, Employee of the Month at The Blacklight Cafe. 

She hurried into the loo, splashed some water on her face, and regrouped. How long had Malfoy been here? How much did he remember? How did he think he’d arrived, and where did he think he was from? 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Aside from whoever had performed the modification, the only one who could answer these questions was Draco — Damien — himself. She pushed the bathroom door open and returned to her table, taking up her seat and her book once more.

She stared unseeing down at her novel, massaging the mounting headache out of her scalp. And when she couldn’t stand that anymore, she looked up.

He was staring at her. Book fully closed, no finger holding his place, this time. She held his gaze, heart pounding. He narrowed his eyes. Looked away. Looked back.

And winked. 

Hermione flushed. _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck._ Without looking back at him, she stuffed her book into her bag, brushed her hair out of her face, and rushed out of the cafe. 

A cup of untouched tea rested cooling on the table.

* * *

Hermione arrived at the office just after 9 am, an hour past her usual start time. She beelined for her desk, forgoing any hellos, and sat heavily in her chair. 

She cleared away a stack of papers and set her wand down in front of her. “Avenseguim,” she whispered. 

For a moment, nothing happened. She held her breath. The wand twitched, then swung to the right, trembling. 

Hermione let out a sigh of relief. The tracking spell had worked. Wherever that extra pound coin went, Hermione could track it; and right now, it was in Draco Malfoy’s pocket.

She turned her attention to her weekly planner and swallowed. Now that Malfoy was handled — at least for now — her crushing workload crashed back down onto her shoulders. 

There was the case of the centaur who had kissed a human girl. Normally, the Ministry would happily ignore such interactions as long as they were consensual, but the girl was 16, the centaur 48; the parents were very upset. Hermione hadn’t had time to formulate a coherent legal response to the matter, let alone a moral one.

There was an ongoing argument with her supervisor, Anna Crowley, over the “inappropriate ways” Hermione spent her time. Following up on cases of cruelty towards magical creatures was, apparently, quite inappropriate. 

Of course, there was the house-elf legislation, which, given her reputation as a shrill, naive swot, she considered it best to remain uninvolved in publicly. Behind the scenes, however, she was losing sleep over its loopholes and compromises; sending frantic, unsigned memorandums at ungodly hours to the team in charge of the recommendation report. 

And there was something else, too. 

There had been whispers, lately, about the state of the Ministry. The events following Voldemort’s return had rocked public trust just when it was finally recovering from the first time Death Eaters had infiltrated the government. This time, people were less likely to accept the Imperius defense. All too many Ministry employees and associates had been proven collaborators before, and gotten off scot-free. Lucius Malfoy, for one. Perhaps because of the intense public scrutiny, he was rotting in a cell already, along with almost all the other Death Eaters prominent enough to be household names.

Legal proceedings for those more tangentially involved were dragging on, and some were accusing the Ministry of avoiding the issue as long as possible out of political cowardice. Others said they were only following procedures, something more important than ever in a time of instability. Still others concluded that the only explanation for the delay was that the Ministry had no intention of jailing Dark wizards because Dark wizards made up its ranks.

Who was right? Could they all be right? Hermione had questions, but no answers, and she kept working, furiously, through it all. It felt, at times, as though she was dragging her feet through wet concrete, trying to win a race; but she didn’t know what would be waiting for her at the finish line.

“Granger.” Hermione jumped.

“Yes. Hello. How are you?” She said, avoiding using Crowley’s name. Before taking over as head of the Magical Creatures department, Crowley had been an Auror. That was all well and good, but she still expected to be addressed as one. Hermione couldn’t quite stomach calling her “Auror Crowley,” so she opted to call her nothing at all, when she could get away with it. 

“I’m alright. I’d be a lot better if I had the Doxie brief on my desk.” 

Shit. Hermione had forgotten about that. “It’ll be there in an hour.” 

“Right.” Crowley paused, tapping her fingers on Hermione’s desk. “You were a bit late this morning.” 

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Bit feverish I’m afraid. Slow getting out the door.” 

“Well. Take a sick day or don’t, but if you’re going to be here, be here on time.” 

What are you going to do, fire me? Hermione thought. But honestly, she’d probably relish the chance. “Yes, of course.” 

Crowley frowned and looked pointedly at Hermione’s wand before turning and walking back to her corner office.

Hermione ground her teeth and glanced at her desk. The wand was trembling, making tiny movements to the left and right before settling into complete stillness. “Shit.” She waited to see if it would move again. It didn’t. She sighed, holstered it, and got back to work.

* * *

The wand led her back to Chelsea. More specifically, to a narrow, brick storefront with a sign that said “Lady Moore’s Records and More.” Hermione ducked into an alley, looked over her shoulder, and lifted the weak Muggle Repelling charm that had protected her from curious eyes on the way. For this part, she’d have to be seen.

A bell tinkled above her head as she entered the record shop. She was immediately hit with the smell of old things: paper and ink, dust and wax, other people’s perfume. The front of the store was devoted to crates of records, but it extended indefinitely back into shelves of books with various knick-knacks and oddities nestled in between. She stood on her tiptoes, looking around for a shopkeeper.

“Hallo!” someone called from the other end of the store. Hermione could barely make out a bespectacled man from between the stacks. She waved. “Hi!”

“Yell if you need something!” 

“I will!” Hermione smiled and began flipping through the records. She wasn’t much of a music fan, but she was always at ease in places like this, filled with information and other people’s things. 

She wound her way through the bookshelves and gasped. The books gave way to a large, open room. A plush pink couch rested regal at one end; dozens of wooden school chairs filled up the middle. In the front, there was a lectern, with a rainbow banner that read “The Reading Room.” 

Hermione looked over her shoulder, then back to the lectern. She could not make the room make sense. How could it be this wide, with an entrance this narrow? That buzzing feeling filled her blood, played on her scalp. It didn’t make sense. It was magic.

“Nice, isn’t it?” The man had appeared suddenly to her right. A head shorter than her, she could see the wispy grey of his hair. 

Hermione nodded. 

The man continued. “We host a lot of events here, of course, I like to keep it lively. And people do like to sit and read during the day. It's good to see people enjoy the place.”

“Oh?” Hermione was still struggling to collect herself.

“Oh, yes.” 

“Maybe you can help me, then.” 

He smiled and looked her straight in the eye. “Oh?”

Hermione smiled back, holding his gaze. “I have a friend. Damien. I think he was here today.” 

The man squinted, still smiling. “What exactly do you need help with?”

“Well,” Hermione licked her lips, thinking fast. “He’s quite the reader, you see. And seeing as Christmas is coming up, I’m hoping I can get him something he hasn’t read before.” 

“Ah.” 

“Yes. So…”

“Will I break my sacred vow of confidentiality as a bookseller and reveal what my customer has been buying?” He raised his eyebrows. Hermione flushed. 

He broke into a laugh. “Of course I will!” He motioned for her to follow him. “He’s been very taken with 20th century English humor writers lately. So no _Lucky Jim,_ no Barbara Pym.” 

Hermione nodded, a little dazed. 

“He’s pretty well stocked on all the English classics really. I think the first thing he bought here was _Middlemarch._ Do you know what I recommend?” He strode quickly into another stack; Hermione jogged a little to meet him.

“The Russians.” He pulled out a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ and handed it to her. “I keep recommending Dostoesvky and he keeps avoiding him. I keep telling him, for someone so moody you sure are afraid of a little darkness.”

Hermione turned the book in her hands. Raskolnikov, destroyed by the weight of murder, so much easier in theory than in practice. “Not this one, I think,” she said, with effort. 

The man looked at her, took the book, and put it back on the shelf. “Something shorter then.” The man held up _Notes from the Underground._ Hermione breathed out a laugh. A crazed civil servant, addicted to suffering? “Why not?” 

* * *

At the till, the man looked up at her through his glasses. “We’re actually closed, you know.”

“Oh, goodness. I didn’t. Sorry.” 

“It’s quite alright. He’s always in here in the evening hours. If you’d been here any earlier, you would have ruined the surprise.” He winked. 

“Well.” Hermione took the book from the counter and dropped it into her bag. “Thank you.” 

"Thank you," he said. He paused, expectant.

She hesitated. "Jean." 

"Jean." He waved.

As she turned to leave, she saw her coin, shining, lonely, in a glass tip jar. 


	4. Lady Moore's Records and More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Hermione flipped through her notebook until she landed on a dog-eared, grimy page. “Life inventory,” was written in messy cursive at the top. 

One year ago, she had listed a confused jumble of wants until space ran out. “Own another cat.” “At least 3 cashmere sweaters.” “Wear lipstick weekly — NOT daily.” “Achieve managerial position at Ministry.” “Pass legislation for the liberation of a magical species.” 

Some were checked off. She had purchased 5 cashmere sweaters, in fact, though they didn’t bring her the air of effortless put-togetherness she had hoped they would. 

Others were still decidedly blank. She was nowhere near ready to replace Crookshanks, even after all this time. Still others she remained unsure of. She hadn’t yet crossed out the one about becoming a manager, but she was seriously considering it. 

She had crossed one out almost immediately after writing it. “Find loving partner,” she had written in a tiny, shameful scrawl — 50 wishes in, despite thinking it from the beginning. Shortly after, she’d furiously scribbled over it, blue ink spilling into the surrounding wishes. How pathetic, how pathetic, she’d thought.

Months later, in a moment of self-love or pity, she’d written it again, even tinier this time, above the scribble. It’s okay to want things, she told herself, quietly.

She struck through “pass legislation” with a satisfied smile. The house elf bill had gone through. Of course, she wasn’t directly involved. But she felt the true ring of accomplishment like a bell through her heart when she heard the news, so she knew she deserved the credit, at least here, where only she could see it.

She sighed and sipped her tea. She supposed she was making reasonable progress on her list. After all, she had her whole life to learn to wear lipstick on special occasions. Her whole life, she thought somewhere below herself, to meet someone and be happy.

Satisfied with her weekly stock-taking, she flipped to another dog-eared page. Malfoy.

She had a profile now. Damien Hurley. Barista. Book-lover? 

She frowned. The page was still frustratingly blank. 

What else did he do? How much did he know? 

Okay, so he didn’t seem to recognize her at first sight. But did it jog his memory? Did he know he’d lost anything at all? 

She sucked absently on the end of her pen and returned to the next steps section.

She’d written down, then crossed off:

-preliminary archival research

-tracking spell

-further archival research (associates, symbol, history)

-further contact?

She flipped the book closed, put on a (cashmere) sweater under her peacoat, and started for the door. She paused. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed a tube of lipstick, put on the sheer mauve, and bounded down the stairs.

* * *

It was an uncharacteristically cold night. Icy rain sleeted down; her coat grew heavy and clinging. 

“Damn,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Damn damn damn damn damn.” 

She uncrossed her arms, which had been tightly bound against her chest, and pushed open the door.

Lady Moore’s Records and More was warm and bright. Bells, which she hadn’t noticed before, tinkled overhead. 

“Jean!” said the shopkeeper. 

“Hi,” Hermione smiled. “Is there a place for this coat?”

His face turned solemn. He walked up to her quickly and held out his hands. “Of course there is.” 

With a huffing laugh, she handed it over. He held it carefully and motioned her over. “Your friend is here,” he stage-whispered. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “I won’t tell.” 

Good, she thought. But also, fuck. 

As she wound her way between the narrow stacks, the back of his head came into view. It shone brilliant platinum in the light, bent, the nape of his neck glowing white.

She swallowed and took a seat. 

In her peripheral vision, she was aware of him slowly lifting, then lowering his gaze. A beat later, it snapped up again.

“You.”

“Me.” She raised her chin to meet him. She paused, then raised her eyebrows. “You.”

He frowned. “I always come here.”

“So?”

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

She shrugged.

“What are you doing here?”

She crossed her legs and took out her Pynchon. “Reading.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to do so. 

He shook his head and went back to his book. She snuck a peek to his lap. The spine was hidden, pressed against the fabric of his blue jeans, but she could make out words like flashes of a lighthouse on the torn and yellowed pages. Being. Worldly. Das-ein. 

She mouthed the words. Heidegger?

He caught her eye. She looked away quickly, worried her lip, and stared harder at her book.

“Are you enjoying that?”

She frowned at him, then down at her Pynchon.

“What do you mean?”

“You were reading it last time.”

She nodded slowly. Observant, wasn’t he? Her instinct for honesty took over. “To be honest, no.”

“I haven’t read him.” He looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t. 

After a moment’s silence, she motioned to his lap. “You?” 

He seemed shy all of a sudden, but held his book up so she could see the front cover anyway. 

“Why Heidegger?”

He smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “Trying to figure out the meaning of life. Why else?

“You could say that about any book.”

To her surprise, his face broke out into a giant grin. “I guess you could.”

They each tucked a finger in their books. She swallowed. This was her opening. “Do you come here a lot then?”

“What, trying to pick me up?” 

He spent an uncomfortable moment looking straight at her. She scoffed, unsure of what else to do. 

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I do. Come here a lot, I mean.”

“Any books particularly helpful in finding the meaning of life?” 

He cocked his head.

“I just finished _Middlemarch_.” 

How creepy is it that I know that already? she thought. “What did you think?” 

He glanced at her. The corners of his mouth lifted. 

“People have said it’s full of wisdom. And I see that. But it’s not… helpful to me.”

“How so?” 

“Well, I read those experiences and…” He gestured with his hands. “Felt them. But I didn’t feel… recognition, I suppose.” He paused, smiled. “Maybe it’s because I’m not minor nobility in the Midlands.”

“But you are a scoundrel from London.”

“What makes you think I’m a scoundrel? Or from London, for that matter?” 

She paused as if in thought, but her heart was in her throat. Why should she think he was a scoundrel, indeed? She took a breath. He had been a bit of an arse at the coffee shop, to be fair.

She nodded decisively. “Dirty looks.”

“Dirty looks?”

“Very bad customer service.”

“I covered your coffee as I recall.”

“30 pence. Hardly a charitable donation. Especially considering the margins on a drink like that. It’s barely even coffee.”

“What was it again?”

“The Nutcracker.”

He shook his head. “If you didn’t like it you didn’t have to order it.”

“You’re telling me you do? I figured it was something you would make up to be as disgusting and adulterated as possible so you could make fun of the uncool patrons who order it.” 

“Again, you could have ordered an espresso. No one was holding a gun to your head.”

She paused, taken aback by his casual use of a Muggle expression. 

“I panicked.” 

“Mm. Panic-inducing situation, ordering a coffee?”

From your childhood nemesis who happens to bear the Dark Mark? “It’s up there. Anyway, yes. Very rude, if not a scoundrel.”

He slapped his hand to his chest. “I’m very sorry.”

Even in this most particular of situations, she didn’t have the heart to say: “I forgive you.” Instead she said, probing: “I guess I don’t know if you’re a Londoner either.”

He smiled, paused, then stood up. “You want to get a drink?”

She blinked slowly. If she wasn’t imagining it, he colored a little. He bent down close, and his breath tickled her ear as he said: “People are trying to read.”

For the first time, she noticed the other patrons lurking in the shadows, breathing out in heavy quiet bookworm rage, circling the couches. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.“

Through the window, light gleamed wetly on the cobblestones outside. 

“Bye John.” Damien saluted him and pushed in the door.

Over the till, the shopkeeper — _John,_ she thought — handed back her coat, warm and dry. 

“Thank you,” she said, brows knitted. That was fast, she thought, but they were out the door and John was waving goodbye and it was just her and Draco — Damien — now.

They walked in silence for a while, two coats trailing on the glowing ground.

“Do I sound like I’m from London?” 

He was facing straight ahead — she couldn’t make out this expression, face washed out with lamplight.

“Dunno.” She picked at her sleeve. “You just sound posh, to be honest. Very… you know. Received.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. That’s what people usually say.” 

This is something he’s asking about often? Before she could press further, he cut in. “What about you? Berkshire? Buckinghamshire?” 

“I’m from the Midlands myself actually.” 

“Mm. I guess I didn’t hear enough to place it.”

“I just sound middle class, to be fair. The rain in Spain...” He laughed at her. “Your turn then!” 

He cleared his throat and turned up his nose. “The water in Majorca…”

She laughed harder, then stopped. That clipped and haughty voice. How many times had that voice said Mudblood? Or worse — yes, my lord.

* * *

He pushed in the door to a Red Lion much like any other, full of gammon-cheeked men watching footy.

“What do you do?” he asked as they crossed the threshold.

“Civil servant.” Damn her impulse toward honesty! “I mean, I was. I lost my job recently. I’m on the dole.” On the dole!?

“On the dole?” He smirked. “Well, I only asked to figure out who was paying for drinks.” He looked her up and down. “I guess it’s me.”

“Right.” She nodded, dazed. 

He went up to the bar. She made her way to a booth, closed her eyes, and thanked her lucky stars for a moment’s peace and quiet. The whole experience swam through her like a dream, with dreamlike logic and dreamlike surreal emotion. She was in a pub with Draco Malfoy. In one moment she was in fear — in the next, fun. What did he know about himself? Almost nothing, it seemed.

He arrived with a Guinness in one hand, a shandy in the other. “I don’t know what you like, so I went for opposites.” 

“I’ll take the Guinness,” she said. “You don’t have a preference?”

He shrugged.

She paused, sipped. How hard to press? She remembered he’d ignored her earlier question. “Where are you from? You never said.” 

He sipped his shandy and looked up. “Is that really the conversation you want to have?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Likes/dislikes, where you from, any brothers or sisters...”

“What’s so wrong with that? I mean." She frowned into her Guinness. “What else is there?”

“Well, books, for example.”

She cocked her head.

He glanced at her. “You know someone’s opinion about a book, you really know something about them. Something real.”

“Do you?” She leaned in closer, forearms gumming to the sticky table. “People say they like books they haven’t read all the time. You know, for what they represent. Rather than what you...”

He rotated his glass, exhaled, shook his head. She felt a cold shift in the air. Had she hurt his feelings?

It clicked. If he really had lost his memory, there was nothing else for him to hold onto. Nothing else he could talk about. She pressed her lips together. “Of course, you’d have to be a major arsehole to read a whole book and be false about it after. And I don’t think you’re that big of an arsehole.” She smiled lamely, sick with recognition. She’d arrived in the wizarding world with nothing but _Hogwarts: A History_ , clinging to it for years and years and years after and even now.

“You would say that. Reading Pynchon.” He looked at her slyly. “Come out for a fag?” 

She blinked. “You smoke?” 

“I do. Is that a problem?”

“I mean. “I’m assuming you already know it’s bad for you.”

A smile flickered across his face. “I’m aware.”

“Well. I guess that’s alright then.”

She followed him out to the garden. He flicked his ashes on the ground and she pressed, again. “I feel like I still haven’t learned the first thing about you.” 

“Would you like to learn more?” And he reached out and traced the line of her ear.

Her stomach dropped.

She was 10 again, her parents scolding her for carrying on a conversation with a grown man while their backs were turned. _What are you doing talking to him? Alone?_ her mother had asked. _Talking about science_ , she’d protested. _He was a scientist._ But she half understood, even then, that a conversation with a man wasn’t innocent. That there was an undercurrent of sexuality it was her responsibility to police. That exchanging information was no excuse. 

She grabbed her hair and smoothed it over her burning ear. She smiled a plastic smile, not looking at him.

“I don’t live far,” he said in a low voice. 

She cradled her Guinness, took the almost last sip. Voices argued within her. Her parents’, professors’, friends’ voices telling her to stay far, far away from Draco Malfoy’s house. A rebel girl’s voice telling her to go wherever she damn well pleased. And another voice she didn’t want to acknowledge — one that wasn’t quite ready for this strange night inhaling this strange man’s cigarette smoke to be over. 

Alright then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rain in Spain: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmADMB2utAo  
> Water in Majorca: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uz9_YfIQaz4


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione sat on the matte leather sofa, clutching her knees for dear life. She was in Draco Malfoy’s Muggle apartment. And while it was a remarkably nice apartment, it was, nonetheless, a deeply uncomfortable situation.

She took a deep breath and focused on the former. Wood floors, big windows, fire escape. A record player, a low table, a bookshelf. And of course it smelled more than a little like coffee.

She cleared her throat, craned her neck toward the kitchen. “You live here?” Stupid question.

He popped his head out, caught her eye. “Drink?” Hadn’t heard. Thank God.

“Tea."

He nodded, disappeared. 

She shook her head, shivering with anxious energy. “Fuck,” she whispered. It didn’t help. She stood and made her way to the far corner, where there was a crate of records.

Porcelain clinked on the coffee table behind her. Then his warmth was by her side. “What should we put on?”

“Oh,” Hermione faltered. “Um. Couldn’t possibly choose. From the many interesting bands I have definitely heard of.” 

He laughed a little. “Not much of a cratedigger?”

She shook her head. 

“What kind of mood are you in?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“Nervous.”

He smiled a strange little smile. “Well, that gives us some options.” He pulled out and inspected record after record — Hermione’s eyes rested on Gang of Four, Mahler, cover images of beautiful bubblegum girl groups. As he trailed off, absorbed in his record collection, she realized, with horror, that he was _cool._

“Perfect.” He put on _The Rite of Spring_ and, yes, _nervous_ strings filled the room. She wished, for a fleeting second, she’d said something else.

“Shall we?” He gestured back to the couch.

She sat down. He sat down. Their legs were touching. She felt, not a little, like she was going to be sick.

She picked up the mug, breathed in deep, took a sip. It smelled floral and tasted like earth; she smiled despite herself. “Nice tea.”

He smiled back. “I like nice things.”

The Guinness and shandy flashed in her mind. She pressed her lips together. “I thought you said you didn’t know what you like.” 

He cleared his throat. “Not always.” He looked up at her. “It’s easier to know _who_ you like. Don’t you think?” 

Her heart thumped in her chest. She watched him, all of him: his bright grey eyes and his pale pink flush and the way his left hand clenched and unclenched beside him. She remembered how good it had felt to punch him in the face.

“Nice things,” she murmured. It _was_ nice here. The music, the wood floors, the couch, the tea — nice. Much nicer than a cell in Azkaban. 

He picked the exact wrong time to lay his hand over hers; to gently trace the lines of her palm.

Slowly, carefully, she pulled one hand away and put her tea down with the other. Horns swelled in the background, discordant notes hit her ears, and she couldn’t do this anymore. 

“Listen. I don’t know anything about you and you haven’t told me when I asked. If you think I’m going to sleep with you, you’re… Well, you’re wrong.”

He exhaled. She waited. A long, uncomfortable moment passed. 

He took another sip of tea before replying. “I didn’t realize I’d offended you.” He wasn’t looking at her anymore. 

“Well.” This had been _such_ a bad idea.

He turned the mug in his lap, still not meeting her eyes. She smoothed her skirt and made her way to the door, trying to control her breathing; cringing at the sound of her footsteps on the floor.

His voice rang out behind her. “Wait.” She stopped. “I’m sorry if I’ve been... evasive about my past.” _Sorry._ She swallowed. Had she ever heard that word from Malfoy’s lips? “I’m a bit sensitive about that sort of thing.” She turned, sat back down. He opened his mouth, closed it again. “I had an accident. It left me with some memory problems.” 

“What kind of memory problems?” she asked, too quickly, too loudly. 

He shrugged. “Bad ones. I don’t remember my childhood, I don’t remember my friends. I walked out of the hospital like a newborn, essentially.”

“That sounds… unusual.” Without noticeable short-term memory dysfunction? Without many, many other obvious symptoms relating to the brain? Medically impossible, actually. Unless the cause wasn’t in the realm of medicine or science at all. 

“It is,” he said. 

“What happened, exactly?”

He sighed, shook his head. “Look. I like you. I want you to stay. But this is why I don’t tell people.” He clenched his jaw. “I’d rather talk about basically anything else.” 

“That’s fair enough, I guess.” She paused; thought of the man in front of her instead of the man in her mind. She could not apologize to Malfoy for implying he was an arsehole. But she could apologize to Damien Hurley for spoiling a nice evening. “I’m sorry too. I had some preconceived notions about you. And… you’re not really living up to them. Which is a good thing.”

“Ah.” He rolled his eyes and took another sip. 

“Sorry.” The word died in a whisper in her mouth. 

The corners of his mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly. He lifted his chin, leaned closer, and whispered back. “It’s okay.”

Their arms were touching now. Their faces were very, very close. 

He kissed her. 

A shock of pleasure hit her deep, and without fully deciding to, she was kissing him back. He sucked gently on her lip and from some distant place, she heard herself making a small feminine sound. _Oh._ He kissed the corner of her mouth, her chin. Overcome, she tucked her head in the crook of his neck. Then kissed him there too. He breathed out a shuddering breath. 

She pulled away. They looked at each other. This time his smile was anything but shy. She couldn’t help but laugh. 

Soon, he was laughing too. She watched him and thought — this is what they mean, when they say someone’s eyes are sparkling. All grey and ice and diamonds.

He gripped her arms and held her. “Stay.” 

Hermione had never been a black-out drunk. When she had been 20 or so, she’d had far too much Firewhiskey — ended up slurring complaints about work into a toilet bowl at some unfamiliar pub. Shaken back into awareness, she’d stood, found a fireplace, and took the Floo Network home. There was some higher part of her that was able to navigate out of danger, into safety.

She shook her head. “I have to go.” 

He rubbed her biceps and closed his eyes. “I thought you might say that.” He opened them. “Call me.”

He was scribbling a number on a pad on the coffee table. He tore it and pressed it into her hand. She nodded, stood. He kept his hand on the small of her back as he walked her to the door. 

She opened it herself. “Goodbye, Damien.”

He raised his eyebrows. “See you soon.”

She nodded and walked, quickly, away.

* * *

Hermione woke up the next morning slick with sweat, a pit in her stomach. She hadn’t. She couldn’t have. _God._

What she had done last night was undeniably morally wrong. Not just morally wrong, but sick. Sick. Why had she done it? What would this mean for her investigation? How would it look if it ever got out?

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Breathing through the pain and doing her damnedest not to look away. The thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling through her head, though, so she flipped over onto her stomach, grabbed the notebook and quill from her nightstand, and began to write.

_Why did I do it?_

She chewed her lip, tears standing in her eyes.

_Attraction._

_A series of poor decisions._

She scribbled a mess of black ink underneath and felt very slightly better.

_What did I do, exactly? Why was it wrong?_

_I took advantage of someone in a vulnerable state._

_Would he have chosen to do that with me had he had all his memories? Highly, highly, highly unlikely._

For that matter, would she have chosen to do that with him had he been Draco Malfoy, and not Damien Hurley? Of course not. Hard to imagine, anyway. But he was someone different, so was it so wrong after all? She tore herself away from the thought and continued to write.

 _What did I do?_ _(look it in the face, Hermione)_

_I kissed Draco Malfoy under a memory modification spell._

_Which was wrong because he would never have wanted to kiss me under normal circumstances._

_Which is beside the point, because it's wrong to kiss Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, at all._

She clutched her throat. Alright. She had looked it in the face. But she wasn’t satisfied yet. 

_What do I do now?_

She bit her lip and stared at the page, playing with the quill in her hand.


End file.
